


Pirate Kreacher

by neymovirne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Daydreaming, Gen, Not Really Character Death, imaginary violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neymovirne/pseuds/neymovirne
Summary: Kreacher is grinning while he’s scrubbing. What’s he got to grin about?





	Pirate Kreacher

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Pirate Jenny from The Threepenny Opera by Bertolt Brecht.  
Check out the great Nina Simone’s version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7awW5nrDHk as well as original in German by Lotte Lenya: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ec0clERjQ5A
> 
> The author's opinions might differ from those of the character.  
Thank you to my wonderful beta for some great ideas on formatting as well as even better advice not to use them.

The Noble House of Black is swarming with them: Mudbloods, carroty Blood-Traitors, Half-Breeds, crooks. Mistress would send Kreacher’s head to the plaque on the wall for letting it fall to such disrepute. The bunch of them dishonour the proud halls with their dirty blood and barbarian manners, coming and going, gawking at poor old Kreacher while he is scrubbing the floors. These floors used to be so shiny—Kreacher polished them with his ears when Mistress was angry at Kreacher—but what’s the point of keeping them clean now? Kreacher can get rid of the dirt, but the mud and the pests the disgraced Master has brought will stay.

The Mudblood girl would attempt to talk to Kreacher once in a while; it makes her feel all superior: look, she cares about us house-elves. She can hound the Hogwarts house-elves for a riot for all that Kreacher cares. Kreacher heard some of those work for _pay_. What’s this world coming to? Mistress said the school had gone to the dogs decades ago, and it seems she was right. Of course she was right, bad Kreacher. But Kreacher won’t stand for this sort of talk in this house, oh no, Kreacher won’t. The nasty little brat doesn’t know who she’s talking to.

None of them know. Never would’ve guessed.

Until one day... One day, all while that sham of an Order of theirs is gathered in the kitchen like the cockroaches they are, they’ll hear a scream outside. Master, that filthy scum that made his poor mother shed river of tears, will come out and notice Kreacher grinning while he’s dusting. He’ll kick Kreacher with a boot he’s soiled with vomit before passing out from the old Master’s finest liquor like the swine he is, and ask, “What’ve you got to grin about?”

Kreacher will tell him.

Somewhere far away, there are thestrals. Black thestrals, their wings dark as the night, dark as the name of this house, dark as Mistress’s mourning for her son, the one who was worthy. Their nostrils flaring up in anticipation of blood that is yet to shed. They are flying, shrouded in clouds, closer and closer, swift and deadly under their banner of snake and skull.

And Master will say, “What are you mumbling about, you useless vermin? Go scrub some floors, but wait, give me those priceless goblets first. I’m going to throw them away to dogs and Muggles, ha! Do you dare question me? Have you forgotten your place?”

So Kreacher will go make the beds, and change the sheets at long last, for no one will sully them that night. No one!

Kreacher will be looking out of the window as the freaks return to their useless meeting, and their brats are all lumped together to listen in, paying no mind to the screams outside. Maybe that pair of ginger beasts will hear something—they always poke their noses where they shouldn’t, sniffing and snooping about, those twin wretches—but soon they’ll return to eavesdropping on adults, because what does this brood knows about propriety?

Not one of them will see the magnificent thestrals coming to Grimmauld Place, their riders sitting tall in the ebony-coloured saddles, raining down sacred fire from their wands to burn those hovels around the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They will raze every building in this Muggle-infested street to the ground, screams and the rumble of their blasting spells reaching up to Diagon Alley, to St. Mungo’s, to King’s Cross.

And after they wipe out every last one of those houses, leaving the stately House of Black to rise above their ruins, they’ll knock down this very door. Kreacher will step out, over the rubble, looking every inch as a distinguished elf from a respectable family with dear Master Regulus’s locket around Kreacher’s neck.

As the skull and the snake are searing proudly into the sky, beautiful Mistress Bellatrix will give Kreacher a smile and lead her faithful people into the house to purge it from the riff-raff. They will fight bravely, nobly. In the end, they will capture every last one of those good-for-nothings and bring them to Kreacher.

And they will ask Kreacher,

“Should we kill them now, or later?”

The blessed, long-awaited silence will fall on the proud House of Blacks at last, its unwelcome inhabitants all petrified and tied and gagged. The kind of silence where a house-elf could hear a doxy shuffling in the curtains of the drawing room from the kitchen. And into this silence, Kreacher will say,

“Right now.”

_“Right now.”_

Coming over to the disgraced Master’s body, Kreacher will spit, “That’ll teach you how to break your Mother’s heart.”

The black thestrals will unfold their mighty wings and disappear into the night. And on one of them, perhaps behind the regal Mistress Bellatrix, will be Kreacher.


End file.
